


Through Bands and Unspoken Vows

by little_abyss, snarry_splitpea



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Break Up, Divorce, F/M, M/M, Multi, Polyamorous Character, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 14:58:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16746184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss, https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarry_splitpea/pseuds/snarry_splitpea
Summary: Dorian and Cullen are inappropriate, in love, and finding out what that means for Lady Inquisitor.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sorrowfulcheese](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorrowfulcheese/gifts).



> This is technically complete, but consider it a sketch instead of a painting. Some parts are sparse because the plan was to edit in more sensory details. 
> 
> This was started years ago and isn't filled in with the imagery and intimacy you're probably used to from both authors. We don't plan to finish it, but feel it's worth a read even without certain details filled in.

This place is full of memories of her.

 

On the battlements, that’s where they kissed for the first time, his hand on her waist, hers on his back under his cloak.  She’d always had such cold hands. He remembers waking at his desk, when he was in the very pit of his withdrawal from lyrium, and seeing her silhouetted against the light of the fire.  She had been holding her hands out to the flame, but she had turned at the noise he’d made, her face creased with concern, the light playing against the cloching of her horns, and in the darkness of her eyes.  He had known then, really, or thought he had. It had felt so real, what he felt. Love. Maybe it was all a dream.

 

The last argument had been the worst.  For months now -  _ only months?  You’ve felt this way for years, years before her _ , some part of his mind whispers, and the part still governed by Templar discipline crushes it firmly - he has felt… what?  Dissatisfied, some vague sense that there will always be something missing, something… else. And he had tried to keep it from her, Herah Adaar; the Inquisitor, Savior of Orlais, Andraste’s Herald as Josephine had styled her, much to her chagrin.  

 

His wife. 

 

She had known, or thought she had.  His mind throws up an image of her, eyes blazing at him from across the Inquisitorial apartments, a piece of parchment crushed in one fist.  “Cullen,” and Maker, oh Maker, she had been shaking when she’d said his name, rage and disappointment and terror all evident in her voice, “Just  _ say  _ it.  Whatever it is you want, you  _ have to tell me _ .”

 

“How many ways can I tell you that it’s nothing?  I  _ have _ everything I wanted!  More! I’m happy, Herah, so please, just…”  He stops. His jaw clenches as he realizes he’s almost yelling at her in frustration.  He’s not happy, and they both know it. But how  _ does _ he tell her?

 

“Cullen,” her voice is quieter now, though there is accusation in her tone, “Do you love me?”

 

“Of course,” he replies automatically, and swallows.  They only stare at each other for a while, there in the pale light reflecting from the snow outside, and then Herah’s mouth opens, her bottom lip red and swollen with biting.  It’s a tic of hers, and it hurts him to see it, because it means she’s been worrying. It is a moment before she speaks, however, and he watches her carefully, unsure if he’s heard correctly once she does.  

 

“I don’t think you do.  Not any more. I know there’s something happening; you haven’t changed, but you’re… I don’t know.  It’s like… like there’s some great quake within you, some… seachange, a shift. And you don’t think about it any more, because you’re so used to it.  And I was used to it. But now it’s shifting… growing. And it won’t be ignored. You… you seem like a stranger to me, sometimes. And I can’t. I can’t pretend that everything’s fine, because it’s not.  Do…” She shakes herself, raising her chin; putting the invisible mantle of her role as Inquisitor around herself. “Cullen. Perhaps we were too hasty. Perhaps it would do us both good… some time apart.  I think that it would be for the best. Because… because I can’t do this. I can’t, Cullen,” her voice shakes on the words, and he sees her eyes have filled with tears, “Not with you.” 

 

“What do you mean?” he asks, terrified.  

 

She only stares at him, and a tear falls from her eye.  She brushes it away with an impatient gesture, and sniffs.  “I mean that I think that we both might do well if we… perhaps spent some time apart.  Either way, time will make clear to us what…”

 

“No,” he interrupts her. He squares his shoulders, jerking more upright.  His posture going rigid as if preparing to fight off some physical foe. It’s all the soldier in him knows to do.  Brace himself. “No, I don’t want to lose you, please…”

 

She smiles sadly.  “Cullen, you’ll have to try a damn sight harder than that to lose me.  I mean, look at me.” She chuckles, then takes a breath, perhaps aware that her attempt at humour was more wounding than ameliorating.  “You’re not going to lose me. Whatever happens, I’ll always be here. Always. We just…”

 

Herah sighs.  Allowing a pause for the interruption she expected but Cullen didn’t make.  He only looked at her with his mouth open. Eyes betraying his bewilderment.  The fight gone out of him in an instant. She chides herself for expecting him to beg.  Perhaps even wanting him to. She finishes her sentence. “...maybe need to figure out how we do this in peace time.”  

  
  


So he had gone. Given her her space.  Though covered in a fine layer of dust, Cullen was grateful that no one had repurposed his original living quarters in Skyhold.  If he was careful about when he left for meals, not a soul had to know he was sleeping in his old bed, again.

 

The Inquisitor was at least discreet and took no pleasure in humiliating her husband over his mistakes.  If Leliana’s spies didn’t catch wind of their… whatever this is, this blip -  _ I can’t, I just can’t, Cullen, not with you  _ \- he hears again in his mind, and without meaning to tightens his grip on the hilt of his sword - then everything should be fine.  And it’s not that he’d been avoiding Herah, well, not really. He looks out the window, across the snowy mountain range and curses himself for a fool.   _ Just talk to her, _ he admonishes himself,  _ she must be hurting too _ .  And maybe she is.  But perhaps, like him, she needed time to lick her wounds in private.

 

He spends the first weeks moping and wondering just how a man could survive divorce from a woman he’s required to see, almost daily.  He’d seen her less and less after Herah requested a break. She trusted him to do decent work without her oversight and hadn’t summoned him to make reports on military affairs.  The only reason he knew she wasn’t actively avoiding him was how cordial she could be when they met in passing. Warm and charming as ever, she’d hold his gaze and listen thoughtfully to his replies.  Though it should have meant nothing to him, Cullen was grateful to not be embarrassed by their split. Especially if it truly did turn out to be temporary. 

 

Cullen, despite Herah’s discretion, couldn’t fight off his own paranoia. He imagined future troubles like what would happen if Leliana and Josephine could connect the dots between his awkwardness at meals and his absence from the war-table.  He knew Leliana would dig. Find out the very root of the problem and hold his secrets captive. Use them against him in ways he couldn’t truly protest. Josephine, well-intentioned but dangerous still, would gossip.

 

He suddenly dreaded attention from Varric and Iron Bull.  They were both well-meaning bachelors that would try to distract him from the love of his life with tavern wenches and ale.  Drink was easier to resist than girls. He was a romantic, yes. Just not an entirely chaste one. What did a break mean in those regards, anyway?  He imagined Herah cuddling up to whomever she desired and, when confronted, reminding him that he’d lost her.

 

It occurred to him that, despite their different upbringings.  Different heritages. They’d never discussed what sex with others meant to them.  Where they going to be religious about it? If so, what religion? Was it a matter of maintaining social decorum?  Dignity in the face of friends and family? He idly wondered if she’d ever slept with anyone other than him after marriage; if she’d ever considered it.  He expected jealousy to slither through his veins but he met the imagined tryst with only mild curiosity. What other people did she fancy? Did she have a type?  What would she do with them that she’d never attempt with him?

 

Though the idea of his wife with another person only seemed to tickle his thoughts, Cullen outright cringed at the idea of cryptic platitudes from Solas and Blackwall delivered without heart.  Attempts to comfort him were always met with discomfort. Like wind to a flame. He’d more gladly embrace bawdy insults from Sera, likely about what a poor lover she assumed him to be.

 

Cassandra, he could bear.  In fact, he’d like to confide in her.  Ask for her help and enjoy her motherly fretting.  He had, however, already dumped too much on her while fighting addiction.  Even just imagining going to her with this made him feel guilty. 

 

Cole had the uncomfortable habit of exposing Cullen’s innermost thoughts.  Would he catch stray tendrils of Cullen’s grief about how much he missed Herah’s touch and the warmth of her skin?  With reverence, he often remembered the feel of her lips against him. The bulk of her. Herah was a woman that could break him in battle but had, instead, chosen to make him the leader of her legions and, later, her husband.  Would these thoughts, too raw and ardent with longing, come spilling from Cole’s mouth?

 

The only person he wasn’t withdrawing from seemed to be Dorian.  Flippant and far too absorbed in himself, Dorian was the last one Cullen had to worry about trying to cheer him up.  The last one he had to hide from for fear of unsolicited advice or gossip.

 

Dorian had already seen Cullen ache, before.  Years ago. Back when the Commander had been shifty-eyed and nearly overcome with his lust for lyrium.  The mage, ever a friend, but not quite a shoulder to cry on, had silently gripped Cullen’s fidgeting arm and led him to a balcony for games and conversation.  Asked him for a tour of military barracks he’d never shown an interest in, before. Kept him busy for an entire day and all but tucked him into bed. Which Cassandra literally did when she arrived minutes after Dorian’s departure.  Awkwardly pretending she was just stopping by on a whim instead of summoned by their mutual friend.

 

Dorian had always been good about giving Cullen exactly what he needed while allowing the Commander to maintain the illusion that he wasn’t falling apart.  In fact, he had been… an anchor really. Someone that Cullen could rely on implicitly. Idly, Cullen allows his gloved finger to trail along the stone of the battlement, and looks out at the setting sun.  Dorian. Perhaps he’d allowed their friendship to lapse somewhat in the first flush of his and Herah’s romance. But the mage had always been there for him. Always. He should send a message, ask Dorian to play chess again.  He should do it soon. Invigorated with enthusiasm, he starts up from where he is leaning on the battlement, and smiles for the first time in what seems like weeks as he strides back toward his office.

Perhaps he and Herah had been impatient, and it was not love at all.  Perhaps it was a mutual panic - he’d heard of it before, during the Blight, where people would marry just as they thought the world would end, because they wanted to snatch a moment of satisfaction, of purity, before the worst happened.  They had been so sure, hadn’t they? That this was finally it. The end of the world. But now that the world was not, indeed, ending, they had discovered that their marriage was not built on a solid foundation at all. And that there was so much more to do than the things that… well, that married people were _ supposed  _ to do.  There was no time for romance, no time for lazy mornings making love as the sun burnt the dew off the grass outside, no time for quiet moments of whispering together, no time for any of that.  Herah was away from Skyhold so much - closing rifts, battling demons, sorting out that mess in Orlais. And he was here. Trapped behind a desk, directing from afar. They hardly knew each other, for the Maker’s sake.  

 

Dorian smiles at him over the chessboard.  “Copper for your thoughts?” he asks, his hand hovering over one of his few remaining pieces.  Cullen shakes his head. “It’s nothing. I’m just… rationalising, I suppose.”

Dorian frowns, tilts his head quizzically, and moves the piece.  He looks dismayed for a moment, and then withdraws his hand, sighing.  “I walked right into that, go ahead, say it.”

 

Cullen laughs.  “Check. In three.”  He pauses, considering the position of Dorian’s pieces.  Then he shakes his head - there is no reprieve. “But you are improving.  You saw it, even though it was too late by then. Another game?”

 

“Oh, why not?” Dorian says airly, and the corner of his moustache twitches as he tries not to smile. Cullen begins putting the black chess pieces onto the board for Dorian to retrieve as Dorian does the same for his.  For a long minute, there is only the faint clack of the pieces and the cawing of the ravens in the tower above. 

 

“If I may ask,” Dorian says, and his tone of voice is cautious, “What where you rationalising?  If it’s too personal a question, I retract it, of course.”

 

Cullen considers, then shakes his head.  Dorian has been more than thoughtful of him, of them, really - he has not asked anything at all about the obvious tensions between himself and Herah.  “Only… only my, our, present situation. Between myself and the Inquisitor.” Dorian nods, not bothering to pretend he does not understand this elliptical statement, and Cullen likes him all the more for this lack of artifice.  It encourages him to continue, “I was comparing our situation to that of people who got married during the Blights - they didn’t know if they would live out the week, and so they… they snatched at happiness while they could. I think that our situation is comparable.”

 

“So, you think that you did not have anything in common with the Inquisitor?  Oh, but Cullen - I disagree.” Dorian leans forward over the chessboard, keen grey eyes intent on Cullen.  “I count you both among my friends because you are both principled, driven individuals. You have talents that compliment each other - she is a woman of opinion, and you are a man willing to listen and then make your own decisions.  I think Herah respects that in you. No, I do not think it - I know she does. She respects you a great deal.” Dorian smiles, just a curl of his lip under the moustache. “You gave her a shoulder to lean on in her time of greatest need, but did not allow her to fall prey to introspection; she gave the same to you.  You are as alike as two sides of the same coin, and though you may not look in the same direction, especially not at the moment,” Dorian pauses, looking at Cullen sharply as if trying to ascertain if he has perhaps overstepped the boundaries of their friendship. When Cullen gives him no such sign, he continues, “Even though it may feel as if you will never overcome this, it would not do to think there was never anything there.  If you are to move forward, you should remember that.”

 

Dorian sits back and concentrates on arranging his chess pieces.  “Speaking of moving forward,” he says glibly, “Shouldn’t you be preparing your troops for my onslaught?  I think I’ve got the hang of this now.” He puts the last piece on the table, and Cullen shakes his head, looking down at his pieces, still scattered haphazardly.  He… he hadn’t just been staring at Dorian. Had he? No, surely. And if he had, it was only that his words had been so… so comforting.

 

...but also…  

 

Cullen takes a breath and begins to arrange his pieces.  Dorian is a friend. And he is right, Herah is his… his wife, still.   _ How long for though _ ? a traitorous part of his mind inquires, and he swallows.  But anyway, Dorian wouldn’t be interested.  _ He does flirt with you an awful lot _ , a little voice reminds him, and he frowns.  Dorian does that with everyone. And just because Dorian is very beautiful, and seems to be… quite free with his affections… that does not mean that… that he’s either interested or available.  He clears his throat and moves a pawn cautiously out into the field, and then says, rather too loudly, “Your move.”

 

“I do know how this part works now, Commander,” Dorian tells him drolly, then laughs and sits forward, fingers interlaced under his chin.  A shaft of sunlight falls over his bare shoulder, shining in his hair. Cullen feels his toes curl a little inside his boots, and he grinds his teeth against each other.  Unbidden thoughts flame within him, mere sensations - sweat, pale fingers on warm, brown flesh, the soft pliance of skin under his hands, in his mouth. He clears his throat and Dorian looks up sharply, smirking.  

“Commander,” he purrs, and the word in his mouth is full of promise, “Eyes on the game, if you please.  You’re rather distracting, when you look at me that way.”

Cullen snorts, and looks away quickly.  Dorian makes his move and sits back, waiting quietly while Cullen considers his.  And though most of his mind is on the game in front of him, he cannot quite shake that feeling of warmth, of comfort, that he had enjoyed.  It seems like a long time since he’d felt this way.

  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Cullen has no plans for the day other than another game of chess with Dorian, this time before breakfast.  The mage had speculated that he’d be part of the party chosen to leave the country with the Inquisitor and, faced with the prospect of not seeing Dorian for weeks, Cullen had quickly begged to see him before the meeting where Herah made her decision.  They both seriously doubted she would take Cullen, and despite his fretting over Dorian’s potential absence, Cullen was glad to have a lengthy break from seeing her at meals.

 

He didn’t know he was running until their usual table came into view and he saw Dorian perched comfortably in his chair. Cullen realized with annoyance that he was always doing that.  Getting so focused and so single-minded that his body just rushed him through the motions until he reached his goal. He slowed himself to a casual stroll in hopes that Dorian hadn’t seen him bolt around the corner like a mabari seeking its master.

 

While Cullen had left a significant amount of his armor behind to avoid the chance of being late, he could see that every single one of Dorian’s expected baubles was polished and in place.  Lately, more than his usual curiosity over whether or not Dorian actually needed that many buckles, he wondered if all of them came undone. Could he undress the mage in interesting sections?  Expose only the side of his torso while his arms, chest, and lower-body remained covered? Reveal one leg up to the thigh? Mix and match sections like a smooth, leather puzzle?

 

His face was flushed as he sat down and he found he couldn’t meet the Dorian’s eye.  Cullen had never, or perhaps if he was honest, had -rarely- had those kinds of thoughts about men.  And what were they, anyway? Not entirely sexual. Rather a fixation on the way Dorian was built. Hard.  Solid. A sudden, flitting thought of running his hand along Herah’s muscled thigh intruded.

He couldn’t fault himself for feeling awe at the thought of Dorian’s well-shaped form.  He loved muscle. Thickness. Yet, he couldn’t think of Iron Bull in the same, worshipful way.  Blackwall? Cassandra? 

 

No.

Not entirely.

 

Fuck.  It was Dorian. Not only Dorian.  After all, Herah never left him. At least his distracting preoccupation with the mage was purely physical.  Cullen hoped.

 

Dorian’s absent-minded fidgeting had always been entertainment for Cullen.  A strategist, eyes trained to catch every tell-tale flinch in the landscape during battle, he couldn’t help but capture every tiny nervous thing Dorian did without thinking.  Thankfully, Dorian seemed not to notice his intermittent stares. Possibly because it was Dorian’s hands. Not his enticingly bare shoulder, broad chest, or captivating eyes that caught his attention.  Dorian probably assumed Cullen was eyeing whatever chess piece he juggled between his fingers. Some sort of strategy forming in the Commander’s head based on the fact that it was a pawn or bishop.

 

Whenever Dorian did catch him looking, the mage only gave a polite smile to the Commander.  Typically one Cullen didn’t see because he would quickly avert his eyes as if caught doing something untoward.  

 

Finally, the game ends.  Dorian smiles ruefully, and sits back, eyeing the sky, watching the light as it filters through the arbour, soft in the early morning.  “If I didn’t know better,” he says rather huffily, “I would have sworn that you’d lured me out here merely to send me off to Orlais like a whipped cur, my metaphorical tail well and truly between my legs.  Poor form, Commander. Poor form.”

 

Cullen cleared his throat quietly, the king still clutched in his fingers.  Dorian’s choice of phrase clangs and resounds in his head; he finds himself imagining that space, the juncture of Dorian’s thighs, what lies there.  He shifts nervously. A beam of sunlight, filtering through the arbour, had caught Dorian; and Maker, it seemed as if he  _ glowed _ .  Perfect, shining - Cullen’s breath caught in his lungs, and before he could stop himself, he’d said, “You’re beautiful, Dorian.”

 

His eyes widened, astonished at himself.  Dorian blinked, twice in rapid succession, and his own eyes grew wide.  Then he had swallowed, barked a laugh and sat back in his chair, raised an eyebrow and said, “Well.  Points off for stating the obvious, but that’s certainly one way to worm your way back into my good graces.”  He’d smirked and gazed at Cullen levelly, before waving a hand and saying “Pray, continue.”

 

Cullen had exhaled quietly then, panic rising within him.  Should he continue? His stomach knots and twists, then he blurts, “It’s the sun.  Your hair. It’s very shiny. Uh. And… and your buckles. Shiny.” Dorian chuckles a little, and sits up in his chair, straightening his spine.  

“Cullen.  My dear man, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were trying to flirt with me.”  He’d frowned slightly, staring at Cullen, grey eyes curious, and then he had lent forward quickly, seeming to study Cullen.  Something in his gaze had made Cullen shift awkwardly, but he’d held Dorian’s gaze, determined to go through with… whatever he’d started.  Dorian drew a breath, placed the fingers of one hand on the table and narrowed his eyes at Cullen before saying, “It seems I don’t know better.  You  _ were _ flirting.  Wonders will never cease.”

 

“I… could be a little more obvious.  Next time. If you’d rather.” \

 

“ _ Next _ time he says, like a perfect tease.  And no, no, I think this delightfully bumbling approach rather suits you.  Because it’s all just… for play.” Silence then, and Dorian’s gaze never wavers, but becomes slightly crueler, before he lowers his voice and growls, “Isn’t it?”

 

Cullen swallows.  He waits, hoping to put his thoughts in better order.  But the silence stretches and he realises he is fiddling with the king, twirling it between his thumb and index finger quickly.  He stops, puts it gently on the table between them and says, “And what if it wasn’t? For play, I mean. I… I don’t know if you understand this about me yet, but Dorian,” he smiles, feels the strangeness of it, and lowers his head, continuing to stare at Dorian, “Dorian, I don’t play.  Not with this sort of thing. I’m not one to tease.” He clears his throat, and takes a deep breath. “Dorian, you  _ are _ beautiful.  You’ve been nothing but kind to me since… since…” he waves his hand and Dorian nods impatiently.  “But… I have to confess, I… I have been curious.”

 

Dorian shakes his head minutely, and Cullen sees his jaw work.  “I don’t want to make you feel put upon, or threatened. But… I have been thinking, over the last… what?  Two months now?” He shakes his head, surprised that the time has gone so quickly, “The thing is, I… I need more.  More than Herah could offer. Something… else. I’m… I think I’ve always known it.” He sighs, and rubs the back of his neck, hot in the sunshine.  “I’m sorry. This was a mista…”

 

“No.”  Dorian looks at him, his mouth working strangely, and then slams his hand into the small table, making the chess pieces tumble.  The motion is so sudden, so violent and unexpected that Cullen jumps as well, staring in shock at Dorian. “Cullen,” Dorian hisses, “Don’t you  _ dare _ pull me into this.  I… I won’t. I….” He looks conflicted, angry, and Cullen opens his mouth, trying to make the words come, but Dorian shakes his head quickly and rises.  “You need to think long and hard about this. I don’t want to be your… your  _ mistake _ .  Your  _ fling _ .”  He looks once more at Cullen, and it is such a strange combination of emotions in his eye that Cullen rises as well without thinking.  For a moment they stand there, facing each other across the chess board and its scatter of pieces, then Dorian turns swiftly and walks out of the arbour.  Cullen calls softly after him once, but the mage never turns around. 

  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

He looks up from the papers on his desk, and she is leaning in the door, watching him, smiling.  He blinks at her, eyes refocusing, helpless not to rove over her figure; her strength, her beauty.  Herah catches him looking and chuckles, raising an eyebrow. They look at each other for a time, until cautiously, Cullen says, “Inquisitor?  May I help you?”

 

Herah sighs at his use of her formal title, and looks worried.  “Actually, Cullen, I was wondering if you had a moment. If we could talk.”

 

“Certainly,” he says promptly, and puts down the quill.  His tone is still formal, and he wonders who built this wall between them, how naturally it seems to have occurred.  He swallows and rises, comes out from behind his desk to fold his arms and ask, “What can I help you with?”

 

“Cullen,” Herah begins sadly, and then looks at him, a piece of her bright white hair falling over her eyes.  She brushes it aside impatiently, and then tells him bluntly, “I’ve missed you.”

 

He smiles, sighs and looks down at the floor, dropping his arms to his sides.  Herah.  _ His _ Herah; beautiful, brave, completely astonishing.  He still remembers the way his breath had caught in his lungs when he’d seen her on their wedding day, the way the pale lavender of her dress had shimmered in the golden sunlight.  The soft press of her lips on his, the way she had smiled, oh Maker, his stomach tightens and he feels sick, so sick at what he has done, or what he has thought of doing. With Dorian.   _ How could you?  _ he asks himself, _ How could this wonderful woman not be enough for you?  Coward. You are not man enough for her. You do not deserve her.   _ And what makes him think that he deserves Dorian?   _ What a mess _ , he thinks, and rubs the back of his neck.  

 

“I… I’ve missed you too,” he tells her, trying to cover his reluctance.  He loves her - he knows this with a purity and depth which is undeniable.  But does he still want her? Is that even possible? He swallows, feels the guilt like a physical presence in his chest, and tries to smile.  

 

She looks at him in concern, and cocks her head.  “Are you well?”

 

He nods, and tries to smile again, though he knows it falls flat from the look on her face.  

 

He can see when her intentions shift.  The way her head shakes slightly and shoulders slump as she watches him.  She’d come to ask him to return to her side. He knows that. Yet, despite his best effort, he kept her at arm’s length.  “Herah, I’m sorry.”

 

She nods slowly, frowning at the floor.  Then, lifting her head quickly, she asks, “What for?”

 

Cullen knows she’s asking him to talk to her.  Express himself. And he knows he owes her this, owes her an explanation, but even now the feelings roll and shift within him and as he opens his mouth to speak, he knows he can’t.  Not only that, but doesn’t want to. Not now. His thoughts confuse him and, when it comes to Dorian, even frighten him. What kind of fool would he be to spill any of his internal turmoil on her lap when it hasn’t been properly sorted?  

 

He knows, but doesn’t. 

 

He changes the subject, smiling ruefully as he says, “No one volunteered for the mission at Honnleath.  I’m sorry for waiting on someone else to take responsibility. I should be the one to go.”

 

Herah looks at him with her lips pressed into a line.  An effort not to frown. “Ah, you’re sorry for not speaking up during the morning’s meeting.” She’s not asking.  In fact, she sounds as if she’s simply taking note. Filling up the air with meaningless words to keep the ones she wants to say from spilling out.  “I can only spare Cole or Dorian for the week. Dorian can be a bit of a complainer during travel, but I know how Cole disturbs you.”

 

Cullen’s smile shines slightly brighter.  The guarded expression crumbling at the mere mention of Dorian.  If Herah notices, she says nothing, but Cullen tries to school his face into calm as he notices her eyes narrowing.  “Cole is quite the handful, but a fighter I’d trust with my life. Dorian’s complaints are what make him... interesting.”  He hopes that was neutral enough. Does she know?

 

Herah sighs, staring at him, studying him.  Then finally, she smiles, though the worried crease never leaves her brow. “You’re right.  I rather like Dorian travelling with me. The constant commentary is entertaining.” When she chuckles again, Cullen is almost sure she knows how he feels about their mutual friend. Her eyes never leave him.  He wants to reassure her. Tell her she’s not being replaced. That Dorian is just a friend and always will be.

 

But...

 

He dreams of Dorian as often as he dreams of Herah.  And his dreams - where he is free to touch, to trail fingers through hair, his nose full of the smell of Dorian’s skin - spill into the daylight hours with such force he feels them as a perverse ache, a constant presence.  He fights not to touch the man. Willing himself to never reach across the table and tangle their fingers together as they play chess. To never press their thighs together when they sit on courtyard benches. He was mortified the one time his vigilance had waned and he found himself lightly gripping Dorian’s bare shoulder during a library conversation.  The mage had expressed frustration over not being able to solve a particular magical conundrum and like a good Commander, Cullen had encouraged Dorian to soldier on. 

 

His fingers didn’t usually tingle for hours after instilling a footsoldier with confidence, though.  He knew he should have kept his hand to himself. He still feels the warm silk of Dorian’s skin beneath his palm, and clenches his fist reflexively.

 

“If anyone should go with you to Honnleath, it should be Dorian, I suppose,” Herah said.  Cullen wondered if her eyes looked searching or knowing as she spoke; her tone was light, but her look, yes, the look in her eyes is bold suddenly, and he frowns slightly.  “And I would be glad to send someone who cares about you as much as I do. It’s an easy mission for two.”

 

It dawned on Cullen that perhaps she’d meant for them to go, together.  Together, he and Herah could survey the land, fight whatever nasties lurked there, and make a decision on the Inquisition’s behalf.  They could reconcile their relationship practically in the same place it had started. He kicked himself for not realizing the romantic implications, earlier.

 

“I take orders well,” Cullen started.  “I’m not so good with hints and I didn’t realize that you’d meant to…” 

 

“I give orders well and I always say what I mean,” Herah interrupted him, her eyebrow arching slightly.  “I’m glad you asked for the mission. I’m glad someone that cares about your safety as much as I do will accompany you there.  Did I not make myself clear?” She lifts her chin, tells him, “I can’t go with you while so much work remains. Take a moment to clear your mind, by the lake.  Like you used to.”

 

“Dorian and I are close friends,” Cullen blurted as Herah turned to leave.  He watched as her hand slid up the door frame to grip the polished wood. She only turned slightly.

 

“I know that.  I want you to know that I… ” her voice trailed off, suddenly hesitant.  He was seeing her face in profile. Entranced, as always, by her full lips and aquiline nose; she is still beautiful to him, of course she is.  Bitterly, he wonders if they could ever get back what they had - and if it is really gone in the first place. Does he still love her? He thinks so.  No. He  _ knows _ it is so.  But he knows what he feels for Dorian is real.   _ Whatever that is _ , he thinks, and clenches his fist in anger at his own confusion. She smiles slightly, just a curl of her lip and tosses her hair away from one shoulder, her tone suddenly defensive, “I’ve watched you two, nearly every day.  Not for long intervals. After all, I’m busy.”

 

Cullen stares at her in silence.  They’d done nothing suspicious. He wondered if she’d ever stood close enough to notice how he stared at the man.  If she’d heard him call Dorian beautiful. But Herah only smiles, and if it is a little sad, it comforts him to see it.  She looks down at the floor for a moment, then sighs, looking out the open door and across the battlements, over the mountainous skyline.  Without turning, she says, more quietly than before, “It’s good to see. You seem to make each other happy. I’ve always liked Dorian. And… he seems to bring you out of yourself.  You and I both have a tendency for melancholy - it’s nice to see you smile. And Dorian too.” She sniffs, and her shoulders rise and fall as he watches, unsure what she’s trying to tell him.  He frowns, opening his mouth to speak when she takes her hand from the frame of the door and says lightly, “Well, make sure to have the report ready when you return. And thank you.”

 

_ For what _ ? he almost asks, then swallows.  He nods, “Yes. Yes, we will. I will.  And… and Herah?”

She is already walking away, but turns fully, the sunlight streaming behind her, casting her face into shadow.  “Yes, Cullen?”

“Thank you,” he says, and though he is not sure if she understands, if she could understand, he means it.  She pauses for a moment longer, and it feels to him as if she wants to stay, to ask something more, but then she tilts her head and nods.  Then she turns, and walks away.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

Cullen wondered if he was ready to make the split from Herah permanent.  After their conversation - so stilted, so formal, it makes him cringe internally to think of it - he had sat for a long time, head in his hands, pondering the upcoming journey to Honnleath.  It seemed strange to contemplate the end of their marriage with such shame and confusion while visiting the place where they’d finally made their relationship real. There was something about the moonlight reflecting off the lake that made Dorian seem contemplative… and made Cullen long for the comforts of his past.  The security of home and family. Something in him twists, and he balls a fist at his side, the dull ache of his nails digging into his flesh doing nothing to stem the tide of guilt and opprobrium which rises in his chest. 

 

He turns his head quickly, opens his eyes to watch Dorian stare across the water.

 

“This is where you’re from?” Dorian asks suddenly, continuing a conversation they’d had earlier while working.  They’d planned to walk back to the inn before nightfall, but then Cullen had mentioned seeing the sun set over the lake.

 

“Yes, I…” Cullen couldn’t finish the thought without a sigh.  He was about to tell Dorian the same story he’d told his wife.  It didn’t feel right. “Nothing really interesting about my childhood, though.”

 

“Lies,” Dorian chuckled as he turned his khol-lined eyes to meet Cullen’s.  He’s attempting to look playful and cheerful, again. Like the Dorian everyone else is used to. Performance and good grooming.  “But I know when I’m being diverted away from a topic. What shall we talk about? Must we talk at all? I’m… I”m honestly no good at this.”

 

“This?”

 

“Cheering up a friend that’s spent the whole trip sighing,” Dorian clarified.

 

“...Ah.”

 

There’s an awkward silence.  A moment where they both inch towards one another and realize what they’re doing, only to stop. The curl of his mustache accentuates the sad, soft, little smile on Dorian’s face and Cullen’s eyes fall to it.  Dorian either doesn’t notice or decides not to make a fuss over the man’s leering.

 

“I don’t want you to feel obligated to cheer me up,” Cullen responds.  He doesn’t. He also can’t help but feel sentimental. He blames to glistening waters before them. The sense of finally coming home even if his home is no longer here.

 

Cullen throws his arm across Dorian’s shoulders. A brotherly gesture.  Sitting side by side and sharing half a hug shouldn’t have sent a thrill through him.  An obvious shudder and then he’s forcing himself to keep his arm there. Not to bolt and run.  He should be able to comfort Dorian like any other soldier of the Inquisition. Like any other friend.

 

But Dorian leans toward him.  Curling against his side in the grass in a way that morphed the brotherly half-embrace into something far less familial.  Neither of them had on much armor, this region safer than most and their inn only just up the road.

 

When Dorian rests his head against Cullen, pleasure zips through the commander.  The comfort of another human being in his arms is something he hasn’t felt in months. He’s giddy like he hasn’t been in years.  Not since the day he met Herah. Before she was Inquisitor. He banishes the thought, quickly. A shake of his head barely enough to make him forget her.  He needs to be physical. Needs to fight a boar or run a mile. Because every single time he stops and thinks, he thinks of her.

 

“Dorian,” he murmurs softly, and Dorian chuckles.  

 

“Well, you had one thing right,” he replies, “It is pretty here.  But I’ll wager I can make something prettier.” 

 

And with that, he extends a hand, makes an elegant pass through the air with it, and immediately, three lavendar-coloured magelights wink into existance.  Cullen swallows, frowning, feels Dorian’s arm circle around his waist. “Now, don’t be nervous, Commander. It’s only a little magic.” He moves his fingers in a gentle wave, and the magelights circle, glimmering slowly from dark violet to deep forest-green to brilliant blue.  Cullen finds himself smiling, feels himself relax slowly. “Dorian,” he repeats, the caution in his voice replaced with wonder, “They’re beautiful.”

 

Dorian laughs again, quietly, then sighs, curls his hand into a fist, and the lights vanish.  “All good things come to an end,” he says softly, and Cullen hears him swallow. Slowly, the mage sits up, no longer leaning against Cullen’s chest.  Cullen sits up as well, smiling still, and looks at Dorian - the setting sun casts a beautiful golden glow across his face, and before he realises what he is doing, Cullen puts a hand gently to his cheek.  “Dorian,” he murmurs, and Dorian smiles, moving his head slightly to nuzzle into Cullen’s hand.

 

There is no space to think, no time to react.  There is only the moment of Cullen’s action, Dorian’s response, and then Cullen is moving forward, his lips going to Dorian’s - soft, Maker, his skin smells beautiful, intoxicating with the scent of vetiver and ash, a brilliant flare of pure want rises in Cullen at the way that Dorian’s lips part under his, the  _ taste  _ of him.  He pants, makes a short noise in his throat, a high, desperate whine.  He pushes forward farther, his tongue curling now into Dorian’s mouth, honey and wine and Dorian’s hands, they’re sliding up his back - he shifts, heart racing.  His own hands go to Dorian’s chest, sliding against the warm leather, the soft skin of the mage’s exposed shoulder.  _ Dorian _ , he thinks, his mind ablaze with it now, the wonder of this man, this incredible man.   _ Dorian _ , he thinks again, fingers entwining into the leather straps which hold his armour in place - then just as quickly, almost as if he is realising what it is that he’s doing, Cullen pulls back.

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

He immediately wished he could call it an accident.  Pull both hands away from the straps across Dorian’s broad chest with a chuckle and witty remark.  Instead, he froze. Crouched there matching the shock on Dorian’s face with his own. As if it were someone else’s fingers still tangled in stylish leather bands.

 

He had pushed Dorian’s back into the grass beneath them and pulled himself up against the mage with a hungry groan.  Balled his fists into the fronts of the other man’s clothes. 

 

He’d done all this… and then frozen.  Had ripped their friendship to shreds in an instant.

 

Seconds passed like minutes.  It felt like an age. Cullen’s gripping fingers loosened.  He knew he needed to back away. Apologize. Beg forgiveness.  Promise to stay out of Dorian’s way forever. Wallow in guilt -eternal.  Finally, he found his tongue. “Dor - Dorian,” he stuttered, “I… Maker, I’m so…”

 

“Maker, preserve me,” said Dorian in a low whisper, thick with want.  His hands slithered confidently onto Cullen’s back, putting pressure at the base of his spine to draw him nearer.  Cullen drew breath, lips parting, Dorian’s mouth a single breath from his own.

 

They’d always been the types to want what they couldn’t have.  Yet, this time there was no thrill of the taboo. This felt right.  Fated.

 

Cullen forced himself to not think of Herah as Dorian’s lips met his own.  Or at least tried to. Her imagined disappointment in how far he’d strayed from her couldn’t stop him from shoving his left leg between Dorian’s thighs.  From pulling on a shoulder with one hand while the other shot into Dorian’s dark hair. He clutched it in his fist, giving himself up to the sensation of everything - the way Dorian moved against him, the heat of their bodies, the smell of the mage - ozone and some kind of flower, sweet and bitter at the same time.  Dorian moaned softly into his mouth and it was all Cullen could do not to rut helplessly against his leg, right there in the open, under the gaze of the Maker and all of nature.

 

This was already happening.  Already piling on future consequences.  The future could wait, Maker, let it wait, just this once. 

 

Almost frantic, Cullen pressed Dorian harder into the earth below, the feel of Dorian beneath him, his hands sliding down him, driving him forward.  And then, suddenly, a firm hand was in the middle of his chest, Dorian was pushing him up, off him, their mouths parting, and Dorian sat there, hair tousled and eyes wide, telling him, “Cullen.  Cullen, we can’t.”

 

“Can’t what?”  He was too far lost to it, too deep into the sensations of kissing Dorian, feeling his need reciprocated.  He pushed forward again, but once more, Dorian stopped him with a firm hand in the centre of his chest. 

 

“This.  You. Kissing me,” Dorian laughs, but the sound is bitter, reproachful.  “Quite aside from the fact of our mutual positions in the social pecking order around Skyhold, have you quite forgotten that you are married?  To the Inquisitor, no less?”

  
  


Cullen shakes his head.  He feels… betrayed, oddly.  He licks his lips, bites the bottom one, then glances at Dorian, feigning puzzlement.  “I’m… I’m sorry. I must have misread… My apologies. It won’t… it won’t happen again.”

 

Dorian sighs, frowning back at him.  He shakes his head, “Don’t pull that wounded stag act on me.  You knew full well that I wanted this; you misread nothing. I just…” he took a deep breath, blows it out his nose in a sound of frustration, “I just don’t believe you realise…”

 

 He swallows, and Cullen hears his throat click.  Dorian looks away, focusing on the sky above. “I don’t believe you realise how much I care for you.  And personally, I would rather that you didn’t tread on my heart. Silly, I know. But lining up for heartache just gets so very dreary after a while.  And I’ve played this game before, you know.”

 

“Game?  What game?”

 

“Cullen, either you really are practically monkish in your experience of the world, or you are a true innocent.”  Dorian rolls his eyes and clenches his jaw. “Very well, since I see I must spell it out, I have had affairs with married men before.  They have, to a man, made grand promises about a life together, and the incomparable joy I bring to their existence, made rather expensive gifts and on and on, ad nauseum.  But you know who they always choose when reality comes calling?” 

 

Dorian looks at Cullen, who swallows nervously under the weight of this gaze, full of guilt, accusation, before telling him stonily, “Their wives.”  

 

Cullen glances at the lake, searching for something to say.  Dorian continues: “Oh, sometimes there was talk of accommodations being made within the marriage, all that sort of thing.”  Cullen looks up again, sees Dorian looking at his fingernails, his tone of voice light, “But I don’t share well. I am an only child, after all.”

 

Behind these glib words, Cullen hears a terrible weight.  He gazes down once more, looking at the stones beneath his feet, and mumbles, “I’m sorry.  I don’t know what else to say.”

 

Quiet in the night air, neither of them moving.  All of a sudden, Dorian sighs. “Just… just promise me that you won’t break my heart too badly, when you do go back to her.  Be gentle with me?” He leans over, lips pressing gently into Cullen’s cheek.

 

Again, Cullen turns to him. Envelops him in a hug.  Dorian wriggled his arms out of Cullen’s grip to put his hands on either side of Cullen’s jaw and look into his face.

 

“Dorian…”  Cullen murmurs, and Dorian smiles.

 

“Enough talking,” he says, and presses his lips to Cullen’s once more.

  
  
  


They're gentle in a way neither man had expected. The frantic pawing of an illicit affair had an appeal, but they find they're both too tired and, perhaps, too smitten to rush this.

 

Their touches are languid.  Cullen brushes his fingers against the back of Dorian’s neck. The touch making the mage shiver with delight and smile against his lips.

 

“Has anyone ever given it to you,  Orlesian?” Dorian asks as his hand sneaks down to grab Cullen’s unfurling cock through his trousers.

 

Cullen has to think a moment. He's not a socialite like Dorian and Madam de Fer. He's not sure if understands.

 

“Is that… with tongues?”

 

“And throat,” Dorian explains as he deftly unbuckles the Commander's pants.   Cullen moves his hips up to give the other man room to grip him. “Trade places with me.  You lie on the grass and give me a bit of room to spread my wings.”

 

Cullen moans while simply imagining seeing Dorian’s face between his thighs. Eager, he crawls off the other man's body and lies down. The moon above, bright in his eyes before Dorian’s face overtakes his view.

 

The mage stares down at him, fondly while tugging on his hard cock.  Cullen wants to look away. Cover his face. Is uncomfortable with not knowing what to do with his face or hands.  There are no lamps to blow out. No curtains to close. He throws an arm over his face, but doesn't resist when Dorian immediately uses his free hand to push it away.

 

“No, no, darling,” Dorian scolds. “I've been wanting to see that expression since I met you, Commander. Don't deny me.”

 

What expression?  And…  _ Darling? _  Cullen pants harder, not quite daring to plunge his hands once more into Dorian’s hair, to pull him up and kiss him again, to rut into Dorian’s hand until he is spent.  Instead, he whines, unable to stop his hips thrusting, and gasps, “Cullen. Dorian, please call me Cullen.”

 

The mage smiles and presses a kiss to the commander's nose.  He then moves his face over to his ear and murmurs, “Yes,  _ Cullen _ .  Anything you want, _ Cullen _ . Do you want my mouth around your cock, Cullen?”

 

“Maker, yes,” Cullen whimpers and, for the moment, lacks the faculties to be embarrassed. “Yes, yes, please. Soon.”

 

Dorian chuckles. Obviously pleased by the other man’s desperation.  Bright moonlight blinds Cullen, momentarily, as Dorian descends. There is no preamble. Not even a witty remark before Dorian presses his tongue against the head of Cullen’s cock.  The heat of his mouth is incredible, the feeling so gorgeously filthy that Cullen cries out, screwing his eyes closed, a short noise as he fists both hands into the long grass beneath him.   He is dimly aware of Dorian’s smile in the movement of his mouth, can in fact invision it, but he honestly doesn’t care when Dorian licks once more up the shaft of his cock, his cock which now throbs with desire, the insessant, white hot thrill of it, and takes just the head into his mouth.

 

Slowly, Cullen sucks in a deep breath between his teeth.  “Dorian,” he groans, “Maker, oh,  _ Maker _ , it feels… feels so…”

Dorian gives a sly, almost experimental suck, pulling the foreskin up slightly, before allowing it to slip back into place as he takes Cullen deeper into his mouth.  Spit sluices around Cullen’s cock, creating a delicious friction which makes him cry out once more and thrust his hips up, plunging himself deeper into Dorian’s throat.  Dorian recoils slightly, Cullen hears him chuckle through his nose and he gasps, “Sorry, I’m sorry, I… Oh, please, please, don’t stop.”

 

In response, Dorian takes him deeper again, and Cullen whimpers.  Now, Dorian’s hand joins his mouth, moving firmly up and down the shaft in a slow, maddening rhythm.  Cullen is rapidly losing himself to it, but even he can feel the unspoken question in this movement, and he pants, “Yeah, yes, Dorian, this is… you’re… Maker, you’re so… please, please.  I… I want, I,  _ oh, fuck,  _ Dorian, Dorian…” He can sustain thought no longer, the pleasure mounting, sending brilliant bursts along each of his fingers, every part of his body and mind is now  focussed on that feeling in his cock, the deep coil of want, it is here, here deep within him and the tight, hot feeling of Dorian’s mouth upon him it is suddenly too much and he comes, hard, barely aware of the high-pitched cry he makes as he does.  

 

Almost immediately, the shame is there.   _ Too fast _ , he thinks disjointedly, and runs his hands through his hair, exhaling heavily.  “I’m sorry,” he murmurs as Dorian pulls away. He can feel Dorian’s hand still on him, smoothing a thumb over the head of his cock, and he almost cringes with how he must look.  

 

“Cullen,” Dorian says slowly, “Open your eyes.”

Cullen sighs quietly, grinds his teeth together, then does.  The moonlight almost blinds him once more, and he takes a deep breath and looks down to where Dorian sits on his haunches, there between his legs.  “You were beautiful,” Dorian tells him softly, “You look utterly lovely when you come. I loved it.”

Cullen huffs a brief laugh and squirms uncomfortably.  Then, a thought occurs to him, and he looks at Dorian. “You… what did you do with the…”  He can feel the bright blush, the heat on his neck, but still forces himself to choke out, “With my… my..?”

“Your spend?”  Dorian looks at him, his smile rather ironic, then he shrugs.  “I swallowed it.”

 

“You  _ what _ ?”  Cullen can only look at Dorian for a long moment, and then, almost in spite of himself, he laughs, pushing himself up on his elbows as he does.  “Dorian, you’re amazing.”

“How kind of you to notice,” Dorian simpers, and cocks his head curiously, then looks at his nails.  “You’ve really never had it Orlesian; my goodness, wonders will never cease. I knew Fereldan had it’s issues with Orlais, but  _ really _ , that’s quite…”

 

“Can… can I do it to you?” Cullen asks abruptly, and Dorian immediately stops talking.  He turns his head slowly, blinking rapidly down at Cullen - then, his expression softens, and he catches his bottom lip between his teeth.  Cullen smiles, nervous in the silence, then looks away from Dorian’s stare. “It’s… it’s alright, I mean, I suppo…”

“Yes,” Dorian says softly, “If you’re sure.”

 

He’s not sure, not really, but he knows in that moment what he wants.  Quickly, Cullen sits up, hand going out to Dorian’s neck, reaching out for him.  Dorian leans foward into Cullen, who pulls them closer, kisses Dorian deep, feels the catch in Dorian’s breath, tastes… Maker, he tastes himself on Dorian’s tongue, and just the knowledge that  _ that _ is what it is makes his toes curl and his heart race, has his fingers clenching harder into Dorian’s skin.  Dorian groans, sliding his hand underneath Cullen’s shirt, clutching at his back, then breaking the kiss. “Don’t, ah, don’t feel as if you have to,” he gasps, even as he shifts so that he is sitting astride Cullen’s thigh, even as Cullen’s fingers fumble with the laces on his breeches, at the buckles that sit - Maker-damned buckles! - in perfect loops around his hips.  He can feel the hardness of Dorian’s cock through the well-worn leather, and it terrifies and excites him at the same time. 

 

Cullen grunts, his view obscured by Dorian leaning foward to kiss his neck, and it feels so good the noise quickly turns into a whine.  “I want to, Dorian,” Cullen mutters, still struggling, as Dorian laughs softly against his neck and brings his own hands to his pants, pushing Cullen’s aside, “I… I want to do…to...” But he stumbles on the words, even here with nothing but the moon above and the grass below them to know, he cannot say the words.  So he lets his hands and mouth show Dorian how much he wants him - the buckles finally open, Dorian himself tearing at the laces, Cullen leans foward, putting his hands on Dorian’s hips, trying to will himself to move them lower, between Dorian’s legs. But in spite of his desire, something in him still baulks like a skittish colt.  He takes a deep breath, tries to calm himself, then mutters, feeling horribly awkward, “D-Dorian? I… don’t… I don’t know how…”

  
  


“Darling, oh, Cullen,” Dorian murmurs gently, both hands now on the side of Cullen’s neck as he softly kisses along his jaw.  Then he sighs, moves back slightly to study Cullen, and smiles when Cullen holds his gaze. Dorian smooths a hand through his hair, raking it backward, and looks away for a moment, his expression thoughtful.  “I  _ am _ sorry,” he murmurs, “I shouldn’t leave you in suspense like this.  I know that… goodness, this is all new for you.” He takes a deep breath, sighs softly and says, “We don’t need to rush, Cullen.  In fact, it’s rather better if we don’t.” He smiles again and raises an eyebrow slightly. “Touch me with your hand first. Whenever you’re ready.”

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

“Herah?” His hand is reaching out for her, going to her waist, her hair, as he used to do when they were together. She smiles at him softly - but the smile falters as he catches the motion and drops his hand. Herah bites her lip, nostrils flaring a little, then asks, “Yes?”  
He is torn. He wants, needs, to be honest with her. Just tell her! he chastises himself viciously, it’s what she needs, what you need, what you owe her. Maker’s Breath, you coward - if you won’t do it for her, do it for Dorian. He swallows hard, blows a breath out his nose and begins, “Herah, do you know about…”

“Ma’am!” A strident call pierces through the chilly dawn, and Herah and Cullen both turn. A messenger approaches, and hands her a letter. Without further ado, Herah takes it from him, breaks the seal and reads. She shakes her head.

“Cullen, I’m sorry, but… I… I just…” Herah raises a hand to her forehead, pushes her hair back and looks at him, stricken. “I just… I’m… I’m so sorry. I have to go. There’s never enough time.” Her hand closes into a fist around the note, and she brings it down hard through the empty air. She looks over her shoulder, shakes her head bitterly, then leans down, both hands going to his shoulders, kissing him lightly on the cheek. Her mouth lingers for a moment, and he feels the significance of her presence - so close, so commanding, so perfect. Then she shifts, bending close to his ear and murmurs, “I need to speak with you, and soon. Will you meet me in your apartments, say… the day after next? At this time?” 

He nods, his eyes closed, breathing in her scent, relishing the closeness of her body, feeling the sting of tears as he wars within himself. So close. He was so close to ruining everything. And if you keep your mouth shut, you ruin what you have with Dorian, he thinks bleakly, You fool. You utter fool. 

“Thank you,” Herah murmurs, releasing him and turning quickly. She takes two steps after the messenger, and then turns to look at him. And her face is so conflicted, he wonders briefly if she might have her own confessions to make. But no. That is his burden to bear. He smiles thinly at her, hoping for reassurance, and she bites her lip and turns away without another word.


	7. Chapter 7

That night, he cannot sleep.  It’s not unusual for him to snatch only a few hours of sleep right at the edge of dawn, but tonight feels… different, somehow.  Weighty with portent, the moon shines fitfully as clouds race over the sky, the wind howling through the crenellations. It sounds so lonely.  Cullen turns over and over, restless, Herah’s voice echoing in his head. He knows he wants her, loves her still, in spite of everything. And he knows he has to tell her what has happened between himself and Dorian - what will continue to happen.  He takes a deep breath and sits up, throwing the furs off himself and dressing quickly. He fastens his cloak snugly around his shoulders and moves down the ladder, resolving as he does to work out what is going on, figure out something he can tell Herah.  It is the only way, and he knows it.

 

The night is beautiful, but bitterly cold.  Cullen nods to the soldiers on sentry duty, who salute him in return.  “Ser? Are you looking for the Inquisitor?” one of them asks, and Cullen pauses in his stride, turning slowly around.  “She went into the Chantry garden about ten minutes ago,” the guard tells him, and Cullen nods.

 

“Thank you,” he says thoughtfully, pulling his cloak tighter around himself.  He smiles a little at the guard who has spoken, then tells the two of them, “You have leave to light the brazier, you know.  As long as you keep it beneath the ramparts. I would rather not find the two of you up here tomorrow, turned to ice.”

 

The guards both chuckle and nod, and Cullen’s smile broadens momentarily.  “Back to it,” he tells them, and they salute once more. He strides away, smile fading, frowning slightly - he still does not know what he will tell Adaar once he finds her.  But he feels resolved now that tonight, he will find her - he will lay his heart bare, and see what will come after.

 

The gardens are hushed - all of Skyhold seems to hold it’s breath in here, the smell of the black lotus heady, even at this altitude.  Cullen smiles as he enters - Adaar is seated in an arbour, watching a moth as it moves pondorously from flower to flower. He pauses, watching her, there in the moonlight.  She is so beautiful - strong, her long limbs elegant in repose, the thoughtful cast of her features. Adaar does not acknowledge him, leaving him free to observe her. He remembers their first time together, how she had held his wrist against the bed, her skin against his, the smell of their sweat.  He swallows, his lips opening as the memories asail him - her voice, rough with pleasure, as she told him  _ harder, Cullen, harder _ , the softness of her breast in his hand, the way she would simply  _ move  _ him, pushing up with her thigh into his hip to roll him onto his back, straddle him and ride him, pulling up and off at the most perfect timing, holding herself above him as he cried out, shooting come over the silver-white hair of her cunt, across his own belly.  Cullen exhales loudly at the power of this memory, and quickly, Adaar looks up.

 

“Sweetling,” Herah whispers to him, as if she believes him to be a ghost or imagined thing.

 

Then, louder.  More present. “Cullen,” she says. “Good Evening.”

 

Cullen has the stirring thought that she might have been thinking of him, too.  That sweetling, her old word for him, had been some sign that she missed him in exactly the same way and with the same ferocity he missed her.

 

Because it was ferocious, wasn’t it?  And unyeilding. This ache his memories stirred.  He was only a man, after all.

 

“Herah,” he says cautiously, stepping forward, “Can we… do you have a moment?”

 

She smiles tensely, inclining her head.  “I suppose,” she sighs, “Though… Commander, if this is about Griffon’s Peak, I’ll not be responsible for any injuries you sustain.”

 

He chuckles, and her smile grows - becomes more relaxed, more beautiful.  He blinks, swallowing hard, desperate to find some way to tell her his feelings for Dorian without hurting her.  Cullen licks his lips, takes another step foward - he sighs, and goes to one knee before her.

 

The Inquisitor raises her eyebrows at him and grins.  “I… feel as if I’m dreaming,” she murmurs, leaning forward slightly.  “Didn’t we do this once already?”

 

“Oh.  Uh. Yes.”  Cullen takes a deep breath, shifts a little.  He had not meant the gesture to be seen in this way - reminiscent of his proposal to her - but sees now how stupid that was.  Clenching his jaw, he frowns, and her smile of delight dies. “Cullen,” she tells him slowly, “You don’t have to…”

 

But he shakes his head.  “No. Herah, I need to talk to you.  This has gone on for far too long, and I… Maker knows, I never,  _ ever _ wanted to hurt you.  You’re… I love you.”

 

The silence is crushing, and he feels as if every one of his breaths, every single heartbeat, is making him a liar.  The Inquisitor nods. “I know that. I love you too.”

 

Cullen exhales hard and shakes his head again.  He opens his mouth to speak, the words,  _ But I love someone else too _ on the tip of his tongue - and then she is there, her calloused hand under his jaw, her thumb stroking over his stubble and he closes his eyes, just for a moment.  “Herah,” he murmurs warningly, but she is  _ there _ \- her hand on his waist underneath the cloak, her soft lips on his now, and he moves into it, glories in it.

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

“Shh-shh-shh,” Dorian chuckles under his breath, the fingers of one hand warm over Cullen’s mouth, even as he pulls Cullen’s cock through his fist, “Be a good boy for me, Cullen.”

_ Maker _ , is all he thinks, his hands no longer pushing the mage away but fumbling instead with the laces on Dorian’s pants.  He grunts, opens his mouth wider to take two of Dorian’s fingers in, moving his tongue around them, sucking them slowly.  Dorian gasps, his eyes going round in the dim light of the corridor. “Oh you  _ are _ good at that,” he murmurs, smirk growing, “Perhaps we can explore that a little more later.”  His voice is nothing more than a rasp as he works his hand up and down Cullen’s shaft, tightening and loosening his grip with an easy rhythm that makes Cullen’s knees weak, makes him groan softly around the fingers in his mouth.  

  
  



	9. Chapter 9

They couldn't stop when he was finally so close to completion and he continues to thrust  back onto Dorian’s cock  savagely even as his wife's footsteps grew nearer.  Cullen gasps as he hears from below a tentative knock, and then silence.  

 

“Oh Maker, oh Maker, oh Maker,” Cullen chants quietly into the pillow.  He is rapidly losing all sense to sensation, the feel of Dorian inside him, the thrill of having Herah so close, the shame of it, the guilt, it all curls and bursts within him even as he strokes his own cock roughly, feeling the hitch of the muscles in his arse as he comes closer.  Dorian bends down closer to Cullen’s neck, taking a handful of curls, pulling them hard as he thrusts. “Come for me, Cullen,” Dorian purrs as the footsteps paused, just outside the bedroom door, “Come for me, nice and loud so that our lady Inquisitor can hear you. Say my name when you do.”

 

“D-Dorian,” Cullen gasps, one hand fisting into the sheet beneath him, the other frantically jerking his cock, his knees aching, and then  _ oh _ it is too much, the thrust of Dorian’s cock against his… oh!  “Dorian!” he cries, oblivious to everything, the scream of the hinges of the door as Herah pushes it open, the hold that Dorian has on his hair, everything, “Maker,  _ fuck _ , Dorian, Dorian, please, I, oh, please!”

  
  



	10. Chapter 10

Herah cleared her throat, and looked at her plate.  Cullen watched her face, carefully, from the corner of his eye; he sees there is something, something here, something which she’s not telling them.  Quickly, he glances at Dorian, who looks back at him across the rim of his wineglass, shrugging imperceptibly. After a moment’s more quiet, Cullen put down his fork.  “Herah? Is there…”

“Cullen,” she says, and her voice is quiet, a mixture of reproach and nervousness there.  “Cullen, do you… do you still love me?”

“Yes,” he tells her without hesitation, and his eyes are drawn to Dorian.  She looks across the table, and catches the glance, bites her lip. “Dorian?” she asks, looking at him, “Do you love Cullen?”

 

Dorian is quiet, and Cullen watches as his nostrils flare slightly.  His mouth is set in a tight line, and finally, after what seems an age, he chokes out, “Yes.”

Herah nods, and takes a deep breath.  Slowly, her expression softens, and she blinks into the candlelight, staring at the way the flames flicker.  She moves her hands from her lap and slowly reaches out to either side of herself. Cullen frowns at the gesture, until she takes his wrist, turning his hand over, putting her own over his, squeezing it gently.  “Dorian,” she says quietly, and Cullen sees that she is nervous, horribly so, “Dorian, will you take my hand? Please?”

 

Dorian looks at her mistrustfully, and Cullen sees him shake his head slightly -  _ no _ .  Herah takes another breath, looking at him steadily, and swallows.  “Please, Dorian.” Her lips tremble, and she says, her voice almost a sob, “I won’t take him away from you.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Dorian asks, and the bitterness in his voice is clear, “He’s yours.  By right of marriage, in the eyes of the Maker, and of the world, you’ve claimed him. He married you.  He made his choice long before I was part of the equation. I don’t have to be here, you know. I can…”

“Cullen is not  _ mine _ , Dorian.”  The hand not holding Cullen’s becomes a fist, and Herah taps it gently on the table next to her wineglass.  “Cullen is  _ his own _ .  When I married him, I put aside my own happiness, my own wants, as he did his.  His happiness, mine - it is ours now, everything. And that means, that if you make him happy, then I want you to be part of my life too.  I miss you. I miss you both. And I love you, Dorian. Not in the way that Cullen does, that much is true, but I do, with my whole heart.”

  
  



End file.
